


Exxact's Imperial March Fills

by Exxact



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: Rebels, Star Wars: Tarkin - James Luceno
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Anxiety, Carrion Plateau, Come Eating, Dom/sub, F/F, Femslash, Force Imagery, Gen, M/M, Married Fraternization, Missing Scene, Murder, Rites of Passage, Sith Meditation, Through Imperial Eyes, mild dirty talk, star wars femslash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-05
Updated: 2017-03-14
Packaged: 2018-09-28 13:11:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10102307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Exxact/pseuds/Exxact
Summary: ~1000-word ficlets inspired by @animperialmarch's prompts.





	1. Sailing From Another World, Captain Brunson/OC

**Author's Note:**

> -I was so happy to see Captain Brunson alive (for now?) in “Through Imperial Eyes”! I’ll post a backstory for these two eventually, but this should make enough sense to be a standalone ficlet.
> 
> -This is a mix of a few prompts, but it was mostly inspired by Day 23: Interrupting Your Superior and Day 31: Shore Leave. I'll be posting a more literal interpretation of the latter involving Tarkin next week.

Brunson had received many a whistle and pat on the back from the more _spirited_ members of the _Conservator_ one they’d learned Lieutenant Barene Salu was to be the officer greeting and debriefing them, but she was unwilling to do more than glare pointedly at them until they settled. Some mildly rambunctious behavior was critical to maintaining ship morale, after all.

 

The purpose of their rendezvous holds little interest to Brunson, and she is as unconcerned while docking in the _Chimaera_ ’s hangar as she’d been when she’d first received the order and coordinates—clearly, the traitor was neither Barene, herself, nor a member of her crew, and the luxury of worrying over the politics of unrest within the larger Empire has long since been worn away by the labors being promoted to Captain entails.

 

Barene, of course, is waiting as close to the descending embarking ramp as is safe, curly blonde hair nearly bursting from her cap around her jaw. She’s blinking, her eyes red-rimmed from working beyond her usual midnight shift straight into the next rotation’s 1200 shift. Still, she’s the most welcome sight Brunson could imagine, and only great personal restraint keeps her from sweeping Barene into her arms and kissing her proudly in front of the entire hangar.

 

“Lieutenant Salu.” It is a curt greeting, befitting two officers of their ranks. Behind her, her crew remains mercifully silent, standing perfectly at rest.

 

“Captain Brunson.” Barene replies with a cruel smirk, but the flaming blush forming nearly perfect circles across her cheeks would fail to intimidate even the most infatuated officer. How many nights had she spent kissing that flush until Barene had frantically twisted in her grip to join their mouths instead? Not often enough, she decides. A mission for later.

 

Barene waits, face impassive, while Brunson instructs her officers to keep close watch for signs of possible treason without jumping to conclusions, reminding them that this is not shore leave with a quick alarm set to all of their chronos with the times of their appointments. None of them are scheduled to be interrogated for another 23 hours, and so they are dismissed with a neat salute and the implicit order not to com Brunson unless a rogue Bantha is goring them.

 

After the immediate pleasantries (and a few chaste, unwitnessed kisses) have been exchanged, Barene takes Brunson’s arm and begins to guide them to her cabin. Brunson thanks her fluctuating luck once again that Barene hadn’t enlisted before they’d married, or she doubts they would be afforded luxuries such as an approved request for shared overnight quarters.

 

“Thrawn’s been in a mood,” Barene sighs, her posture dropping into a slouch against Brunson. “I understand why, of course, but it’s jarring once you’ve worked beside him for nearly two years to watch him suddenly lose trust in his crew. I suppose I shouldn’t complain, based on the situation.” Barene sighs, her jaw tightening before her face lights up with a familiar grin. “My new duties as Lieutenant are quite illustrious, however. I’m now supervising a live animal transport, but I’m not cleared to disclose more than that. And did I tell you that Thrawn has a sculpture of a Carrion veermok now? It’s right on his desk!”

 

Brunson smiles, taking in every word. Barene is certainly the friendliest Eriaduan Brunson has met on her tours of duty across the galaxy (except perhaps for Mrs. Salu, whose endless holomessages continue to disprove every one of Parker and Dehn’s warnings about mother-in-laws). She’d once imagined the planet as occupied entirely by clones of Grand Moff Tarkin, gaunt and humorless, so reserved that their manners twisted around into gruffness.

 

“ _When I think of you on the bridge when nothing is happening, unbuttoning your trousers and demanding I kneel for you,_ ” Barene had whispered once, her mouth pursed conspiratorially, “ _I picture his face in order to stop myself_!”

 

Barene chatters on quietly, free as they are in the officer’s private corridors to be as informal as they dare so long as their voices remain low and their uniforms fastened. She’s grateful for the pleasant distraction of Barene’s voice and the warmth of their shoulders brushing against one another, wondering not for the first time how she’s managed to live as a governor’s daughter, an orphaned soldier, and a young captain with a wife who’s a terrible shot and a wonderful painter in the span of just 24 years.

 

“We need to have our dinner aboard the _Chimaera_ later. I don’t care if we both soak through our seats, you deserve to eat something better than the ration bars I have in my spare boots again.”

 

Brunson’s face prickles with heat at the coarseness of the suggestion. “But I will, my dear,” she purrs, knowing that Barene never could resist a good innuendo. Where an heiress of the Eriduan Quintad learned such language even before joining the Imperial Navy remains a mystery, but Brunson is hardly above utilizing it to her advantage.

 

Barene, as expected, grips Brunson’s arm tighter and muffles a squeal of laughter into her elbow. Brunson is thankful that she only catches Markoren staring _after_ Barene’s gloves have been removed but _before_ her tunic has been unclasped, or she doubts his life and her career aboard her own ship would last much longer.

 

“I dismissed you previously, Ensign,” she reminds him, the lilt of her eyebrows fully conveying the cuffing she’s not afraid to grant him once again. He wisely disappears a moment later with a knowing wave and a wink, and Brunson almost decides not to bother issuing him an impropriety infraction.

 

 _Almost_.


	2. With More Fear to Conquer, Tarkin (Gen)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> \- Written for Days 30 and 31: "Rationing and Shore Leave”.

The sky above the Carrion Plateau is softly lit around its star, an indulgent pink slipping into violet beyond the horizon. Tarkin closes his eyes against the garishness of the colors, so ill-suited to the brutal grace of the environment they illuminate below. He takes a sharp pull on his cigarette, frowns again at the quality of the tobacco purchased behind the anonymity of his turban and chin-veil. He only partakes in this habit on Eriadu, perhaps seeking a familiar scent to supplement his boyhood memories, though he does not believe such sentiments suit him.

 

“ _Nonsense_ ,” he’d first told Palpatine with a derisive chuckle when this trip had been proposed. “ _I don’t have time for holidays_.”

 

“ _Then I shall create time as well as a title for you, my friend_ ,” Palpatine had replied, a smile further marring his deformed face. “ _Your duties will only grow as the station nears its completion. Go to Eriadu and take this opportunity to experience first-hand the security and stability you have brought to your home planet through your governance here_.”

 

Tarkin ashes the rapidly-shrinking cigarette, idly wondering if Palpatine ever longs for Naboo. He knows little enough of the planet beyond its skirmish with the Trade Federation, remembers the sordid images of the former Queen Amidala, dead at 26, splayed open across the holonet, her planet’s eyes dry behind the pretense of mourning. They would weep for him here on Eriadu, he thinks with a fiery satisfaction that blooms against the fading colors above him. Upon being extinguished amidst his final battle, they will laud his heroism, turn his perceived vices inside out until they are virtues, hold all of their future leaders to his example and find them wanting.

 

Without preamble beyond a slurp of retreating water, an Eriaduan hognose appears upon the riverbank, swollen from a recent meal. Tarkin chuckles, watching as the snake slides towards the warmth of his body, content to digest its prize under the dying rays of the sun.  There had been another river, once, and another hognose, overwhelmingly enormous when he was little more than a too-plump infant. He’d cried, of course, paddling frantically into his mother’s arms, quieting only once his father had halved the snake and tossed its remains onto their fire, the bitter green venom crackling amidst the rising smoke. Tarkin does not dwell on the memory, preferring instead to let his vision blur until half of himself has regressed to a boy of eleven, his lip tender beneath his teeth, the plateau howling with life around him.

 

_He’s been sent to fetch water from the river several yards beneath their camp, his belly twisting with nausea and dread. They haven’t had a successful hunt for three rotations now, and as the sky shrinks downwards into blackness, Tarkin struggles not to spit upon their Rodian guide’s sleeping figure, his profile nearly comically ugly in the caricature of shadows against the tent._

 

_The hognose darts out from a muddy nest a meter from his calf, appearing just as quickly as Tarkin retreats back onto the bank. He hugs his knees, staring in horror at the unaffected snake floating atop the surface of the water beside the abandoned bucket. Not only has he failed his task; he has also indulged his instinctive panic instead of triumphing over it._

 

_“You are afraid of this creature because you believe it could cause your death,” Jova states, looming into clarity behind him, handing Tarkin the Rodian’s cup. “Capture the snake, boy, and drain its venom into this. Dilute it with water and then throw it back into the river. It does not deserve to die in order to ease your childish fear.”_

 

Tarkin takes two final, scorching drags from the twist of paper, now no longer than his fingernail. The hognose remains beside his naked foot, ignoring the threat of the singeing stub dangling above its body.

 

_“Every drop of water, every sliver of scrap, every inch of space, is a precious resource,” Jova tells the shaking boy beside him, the skewered arm’s five suction-cupped fingers dangling into the flames. “And when ruled by the right man,” he continues once they have stripped it to the bone and Tarkin has held down every bite, “they become far more than the sum of their parts.”_

 

Tarkin smiles thinly, his foot scraping the snake as he snubs out the cigarette with his heel before retreating into his tent.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -My original inspiration for the imagery in this fic comes from shahs1221’s lovely Tarkin sketches and Instagram captions. 
> 
> -Actual hognose snakes are adorable, ill-tempered cowards who play dead when threatened and aren’t venomous unless you happen to be a toad.


	3. To Know Collapse, Tarkin/Piett, Tarkrennic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Written for Day 26 (my lucky number): "A Surprise" and Day 30: "Apologizing for a Mistake".

The hum of the base’s air circulation intrudes upon Piett’s practiced mindlessness once again, overtaking him. His heart shudders into frantic activity, the silence of his quarters in the dull afternoon light doing little to soothe it. He has been fighting back this particular bout of fussiness since it arrived with Commander Krennic’s shuttle two cycles ago, the ship lurching into the docking bay and sending waves of nausea deep into his belly.

 

His fellow junior officers hate this habit of his, of course. He endures their jittery mimicries without anger, satisfied with the knowledge that his anxiousness is never for naught, even if its cause is unclear even to Piett himself. Only when a thief is caught later that evening or a warning transmission received can Piett ease himself once again into his usual impassive thoughts. 

 

Ruminating on the particulars of his state is doing little to ease it, and Piett hisses out a frustrated noise, his skin itching underneath his olive drab, his forehead cold and slick. Much of the time, Piett is able to force himself to control his sickly fear just as another officer might trick himself out of vertigo. He keeps his mind occupied with menial tasks or purposeful blankness, and though he he has to focus twice as much to project a proper officer’s detached air, he hasn’t received a dressing-down related to it since vomiting on Juin’s boots three years ago after Tarkin’s first inspection.

 

Piett sighs irritably the moment he thinks of the name. He’s been nursing a fool’s affection for his superior for far too long now, his infatuation deepening with every roll of his name, every elegant wave of dismissal. He can no longer justify this fixation as an admiration for another Outer Rim hardscrabbler or a misplaced fantasy while relieving himself before bed. Not when he is rising from his desk, putting on his cap with the intent to walk around the base’s central building on the off-chance he’ll catch a glimpse of Tarkin and feel a familiar lightheaded thrill. Piett stops himself just as he reaches the door, turning back towards his chair, sitting and rising and pacing to the shuttered window before forcing himself to lie on his back upon his cot, his belly still roiling with energy.

 

Objectively, of course, he knows this is a terrible waste of time another officer might spend sleeping or socializing—in other words, actively working to relieve the pressure he feels bloating further within him every moment. Beyond an unwillingness to break fraternization regulations, Piett cannot imagine Tarkin finding him appealing, sparing him a glance or thought amidst his daily routine. He is as bland in appearance as the ceiling he stares at now, clean and neat without any particular defining attribute beyond “adequate”. No, he understands, Tarkin’s interest would catch upon a man with clever features and a sturdy frame, one with eyes more clever than they are pleading. Or perhaps he already courts someone—a delicate heiress, Piett decides, as learned and engaging as Tarkin himself.

 

Despite their idle distraction, Piett’s images of Tarkin dancing with queens on Coruscant fail to slow his heartbeat. He breathes deeply, grateful for the distraction his extra night shift will bring in an hour until he remembers overhearing two guard troopers discussing Krennic’s meeting with Tarkin during shift change. They’d been complaining about working until 1900, when they’d need to clear Krennic before they could go off-shift.

 

The threat is so obvious as to nearly make Piett snarl at himself. Krennic is Tarkin’s antithesis— unsteady bravado against Tarkin’s sharp regality, unctuous spite dripping from his figure like the cape that falls around his shoulders and brushes his heels. Their distaste for one another is well-known—deserved, Piett believes, in Tarkin’s case—but would Krennic be bold enough to raise a hand against Tarkin on this backwater base? To attempt to assassinate him?

 

Piett snaps off of his cot, his strides long, his chest clammy. Logic, order, duty—he barely has the ability to project even the facades of them now, the power of his fear overtaking rational thought while he weaves his way through corridors and outside into the tropical night air, onto a path that leads along the outside of Tarkin’s lower office. He halts before he can pass by the window, contorting himself into a crouch upon the ground beside it. He hears the familiar cadence of Tarkin’s voice nearly immediately, his words barely audible but his throat apparently free from Krennic’s greedy hand or aimed blaster.

 

“Boy, do you care to explain how this filth ended up upon my desk?”

 

Piett knows better than this, knows that eavesdropping outside of Tarkin’s window is suicide if one of the unfamiliar Death Troopers is stationed nearby and should spot him. But his mind ignores the threat, stowing it away in favor of absorbing every word Tarkin utters, his fist curled in readiness against the wall of the building.

 

“I thought you’d remember, Sir.” Krennic’s speech is thick, rasping with the suggestion of a prior act. “Or is your age beginning to catch up to your mind?”

 

The precise crack of a single slap is sharp in Piett’s mind, silencing any coherent thoughts he tries to form. There is only this moment, the shadows against the path, the rise and fall of Krennic’s moans and his exaggerated slurping centimeters from Piett’s horror.

 

“Disgusting creature,” Tarkin spits. “Go on, lap it up. You enjoy debasing yourself so, don’t you?”

 

Piett staggers backwards in disillusionment, no longer bracing himself against the low walls of the central building, his steps as heavy as an AT-AT’s. Was this truly the preening Commander Krennic’s desire—to be treated so crudely? How could a man such as Tarkin’s voice grow smug with such sadism? Such ugliness? He stumbles onto an outcrop below him, scrambles back onto the path before he realizes that his shuddering, vulnerable form is now illuminated by the window’s light.

 

“I’m sorry, Sir,” Krennic purrs as Piett darts away, an obscene, knowing glint in his eyes where they drag against his retreating shadow. “It won’t happen again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Tarkin did canonically oversee Piett at one point! There’s a great quote on Wookieepedia shared between the two on Piett’s page.
> 
> -I couldn’t find a canon age for Piett beyond his date of death, so I used Kenneth Colley’s age in 1977 (40) and calculated from there, deciding he’s ~27 here. Hopefully he’s a semi-appropriate age for a junior officer.


	4. No Shrine, Vader/Piett

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> -Written for "Day 10: Exceeding Expectations".

The Force is barren here, as solid and cold as the system they’ve recently departed from. Vader gropes through it for the tangibility of hatred, far now from the rage of heat and loss his meditation favors. Instead, he remains suspended within himself, the expanse of his mind interrupted only by a momentary overlay of olive-taupe, a gasp suppressed upon the _Executor’s_ bridge.

 

Piett is competent enough for Vader to overlook. And yet, he continues to be drawn forth from the vacuum of darkness, a flickering image breaking through the surface of the Force’s current like rocks still unworn by the river that flows around them. Vader does not trust the integrity of this vision; meditating upon an officer’s mind has never produced more than a pale glimpse of loss, not the richness of fear he is uncovering.

 

Vader feels the energy of the Force swell at the thought, an unfamiliar city thrust into his mind. It is not Coruscant, instinct tells him, though the dim bustle of life is identical to that of its lower levels. Unacknowledged, he walks through a tide of blurred sentients, each alley he passes reflecting Piett’s blank expression back upon him.

 

Vader is struck by the depth of Piett’s hopelessness, the observation flooding the landscape with a shock of noise as though it were broadcast from one of the dozens of filthy soundboards plastered along each building. He continues on, unhindered, until an unwavering vision of Piett in full appears before him.

 

“ _Your chains are forged by fear_ ,” the swirling lights blare in Piett’s voice against Vader’s bare skin. “ _All your abilities, all your might, and yet you are ruled by your inability to harness it_.”

 

A fetal creature shivers against Piett’s boots, bald-headed and charred, its limbs twitching as he bends to cup it. His eyes are wet upon Vader’s, gasping when his burden begins to melt against his shaking hands, and Vader wishes to see no more, heaving a bolt of awareness into the cityscape.

 

Piett’s mind turns molten from panic, the buildings dissolving into themselves as though made of ice and Vader, still hollow with bitterness, simply observes until Piett too disappears into the void, silent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -The cityscape comes from the description of Piett’s home planet Axxila as a “grimier, uglier Coruscant.”


End file.
